A Fine Place To Be

By: Kell Robertson

Popping open a hot beer at dawn
out in the desert,
coughing up remnants
of tobacco-stained dreams, 
very real granite gravel
grinding into my knees
as I fry stolen bacon
in an iron skillet
over a fire
of dry, popping driftwood,
my friend's gentle mare chomping
and snorting down the dry wash
where I tethered her. 

If I climb that ridge there,
I can see cars whipping along
the highway from Albuquerque
to Santa Fe, hear the huge trucks
gearing down for the hill.

But this morning, 
I don't have to hear that,
don't want to eat hamburgers
at Burger King
or have lots of strong shots
of tequila
in your imitation leather
cocktail lounges,
or discuss literature
with university poets
or listen my love
to your lying tongue.

I want to saddle that horse
and ride up through 
the Sangre de Cristo Mountains
into the open madness
where outlaw fires
still burn. 

---

You can find this poem in — Ride Easy!: Selected Poems of Kell Robertson.

You can also check out Pure Blood Primal: The Poetry of Kell Robertson, which was published here last year. It is a fine introduction to the outlaw poetry of this American original.